


Butterflies and needles (line my seamed-up join)

by hypnagogia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby Tom Riddle, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnagogia/pseuds/hypnagogia
Summary: In which Harry had the therapy he needed, and Tom got the childhood he deserved.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79
Collections: distractions 💬 halloween big bang 2020





	Butterflies and needles (line my seamed-up join)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alfisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [alfisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha/pseuds/alfisha) in the [Distractions_Halloween_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Distractions_Halloween_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  prompt:  
> harry: LET ME SEE WHAT YOU HAVE  
> tom: a KNIFE! :D  
> harry: nO!

Harry wakes up to a clattering sound. 

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand as he yawns, feeling muted sunlight filtering through the window blinds. A memory of him telling Tom that they will pick their pumpkins up first thing in the morning flashes through his mind, prompting him to try and sit up, but the comfort of his bed halts him from making any movements requiring his full conscience. For a moment, he entertains the idea of going back to sleep. Tom would understand, he thinks.

Just when he is about to pull his blanket, Harry hears small steps approaching his bed. A second later, he feels a tug on his hand. He blinks and sees Tom pouting at him, his other hand holding something that seems to gleam under the light of his room. 

His hand fumbles around the bed to find his glasses. ‘Tom? What is that in your hand?’

Harry does not expect Tom to say anything, really. The boy may nearly be a 3-year-old, but he still struggles to form actual words. Harry is only slightly worried about it, though, for Tom understands questions and commands alright—he has never thrown any tantrum on the specific matter, too, so all is well.

That is why he _is_ surprised when Tom giggles and says, ‘Knife! For pumpkin! ‘Mon dad!’ and runs out of the room as his hand finds his glasses.

Harry blinks. It takes a few seconds until the words settle in. He sits up and dashes to the direction of Tom’s hurried steps.

If it isn’t for the fact that _Tom is holding a knife_ , Harry would probably fall down to his knees and hug himself for the fact that _Tom said a full sentence_ and promptly succumb to a mental breakdown over realising that his baby’s first word was _knife_ , of all words within the English language. He has been expecting a _dada—_ heck, he would even settle for _poop_. 

Tom _is_ holding a knife, however, so instead of drowning in his misery, he shouts ‘ _Tom! Give me the knife! I’m very happy that you’re finally talking, but please give me the knife!’_ as he chases the little monster.

* * *

Life after the war did not come easy to Harry. 

He did not marry Ginny right away, contrary to popular belief. He never did marry the redhead, for she decided to put a full stop to their relationship after realising that, quote-unquote, _you men oversold the virtue of your cocks, they really aren't that spectacular_.

Harry did not take offence to that—he had his fair share of men, and he agreed with that sentiment, though with a little tweak: both cocks and fannies are not really that spectacular.

They remained friends despite the initial awkwardness. 

It took him exactly 15 different therapists and 278 sessions of therapy spanning through 5 years to learn to deal with his temperament issues, and several hundred more sessions throughout his living years to undo the damages the last 18 years had brought upon him—but he managed.

(There were times when he wanted to stop going because _they did me nothing, Hermione, I’m too damaged to be fixed_. Hermione, however, was nothing short of terrifying when she was set on something, so he relented and went to the session of the week.)

* * *

At Tom’s second birthday party, which was a private event with only the two of them plus Bug in attendance, much to the villagers’ protest ( _‘but we want to celebrate little Tommy’s birthday too!’_ ), Harry learned that Tom enjoyed food fights much more when the food in question was a birthday cake.

Their kitchen was looking a lot like someone put a bomb on the cake and blew it up. Blobs of buttercream frosting were everywhere—the dining table, the walls, the ceiling, their faces (much to Bug’s excitement—the rottweiler couldn’t stop licking her own face), Tom’s favourite pajamas, Harry’s one and only fluffy slippers. Any hope Harry had for a safe spot became futile as he saw Tom run around the room with a chunk of buttercream in his hands, smearing the green-coloured topping on every available space. 

Harry wanted to pull his own hair, but he quickly realised that he would only end up with more buttercream on his being, so he didn’t.

(He no longer bothered to think about the number of this particular knowledge in his _Facts You Should Know about Baby Tom_ list. It has grown far too long to care about such unsubstantial matter.) 

* * *

He attended Weasley's weekly dinner religiously if only to escape the doom and gloom of 12 Grimmauld Place. The first few weeks were torturous, with the obvious lack of attendance throwing cold water at every attempt on cheerful interjections. It was not entirely unusual for the night to end with Molly excusing herself to the bathroom while the others picked on their plates in grievous silence. 

It took them 13 weeks before the waves of laughter no longer sounded so stilted. Longing stares were still thrown at Fred’s chair at every joke, but that was fine.

He had had numerous experiences with scars. Some of them take a very long time to fade, some never do—and that is fine.

* * *

The thirty-fifth thing Harry learned about Tom was that the baby absolutely adores dogs. Wherever they go, whatever they might be doing, Tom would ask for his carrier to be lowered so he can pat the dog they met.

Tom’s first-ever birthday present was a female rottweiler pupper named Bug (short for Walburga, courtesy of Harry’s spite towards the hag). Tom could not pronounce her name, but he giggled in delight whenever she licked his face, and that was all that mattered.

(His habit of patting random dogs never seems to cease. Bug, thankfully, doesn’t mind sharing.)

* * *

In between his therapy sessions, there were times when Harry found himself on a small unassuming clearing in The Forbidden Forest, standing in front of a nameless headstone. Sometimes he brought a bottle of Firewhisky with him, some other times he did not.

On the nights when he did, he’d say whatever came to his mind—rants, mockery, curses, or a combination of them. This would usually end up either with him setting fire to the grave, or dancing on top of it while singing made-up songs full of tauntings.

( _‘Why?’ he asked through gritted teeth, tears streaming down his face. His hands were fisted—the left tight on his side, the right hitting the lone slab. ‘Why me?’_ )

* * *

Tom threw his first tantrum during one of Harry's biggest-paying gig. The boy pooped in his diaper, and Harry had forgotten to bring a fresh one.

He nearly decided to Apparate back to their place when his client, an old widowed lady, offered him a spare of her granddaughters'. He hugged her and cried, only for her to slap his back and told him to _'take care of your son before you start crying, twat.'_

They meet for tea every week after that.

* * *

He was nursing his hangover-induced headache when he heard knocks from the outside. Cursing his empty stash of Sobering Draught, he stumbled to the door and opened it after thwacking his head a few times.

‘Hello, Harry. Can I come in?’ the person in front of him said. It was a… Female? ‘Teddy is at the Burrow, don’t worry.’

It took Harry a few squints and more blinks before realising that the person in front of him was Andromeda Tonks—Sirius’ aunt, and his godson’s grandmother.

(‘Teddy wanted to see you,’ she said, once they sat in the drawing room. Kreacher glared at Mrs Tonks as he served their tea, but she did not seem to acknowledge it. ‘I’m glad I decided to check on you first. I’d rather not have him see his godfather in such state.’

The chamomile tea Kreacher served helped him to recognise the acid in her tongue, despite the neutral expression she wore. He felt the sting.)

* * *

Harry worked as a medium.

It happened as an accident at first, Robert asking him if he could help his wife to find her lost heirloom, only for him to find out that the only person who knew of the item was their dead children, whose ghost floated in her room. She refused to help, until Tom, who was there with him, giggled at her. 

Soon enough, the news spread, and their days started to be filled with them gallivanting all over the town, helping whoever asked for his service.

* * *

Mrs Tonks visited again the next week, this time with Teddy in tow.

The boy was shy at first, but he warmed up quickly as the day went. By the time they were about to leave, Harry had already made a secret handshake with him.

‘You’re a good lad, Harry,’ she commented as he walked them to the door. ‘I see why Remus chose you.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Tonks.’

‘Call me Andy,’ she said. ‘You’re my grandson’s godfather—as far as I’m concerned, you’re my son.’

* * *

Whatever illusion Tom had put on Harry had shattered as the night came.

Harry was on Scheherazade’s 57 night in the castle before the baby started to yawn. It took him 13 more nights before Tom drifted to sleep.

He did not cry, but it was a close call.

* * *

One memorable session with one of his later therapists saw him confessing to the visits: the anger, the cries, the dances, the shouts. 

The talk somehow evolved to him talking about the Tom Riddle he saw in the Pensieve—the dilapidated building, the abusive matron, and Dumbledore’s burning of Riddle’s stolen keepsake—then segued into a confession of a guilt he had been carrying with him for so long: not being able to save the boy.

‘We’re both orphans, both underwent years of physical and mental abuse. Took me a while, but in the end I found people—those I love who love me back. He did not. If he had at least someone who loves him, then perhaps..’ 

‘None of this would have happened?’ the man looked up from his notes, his eyes looking straight at Harry’s. ‘But it _did_ happen, Mr Potter. Circumstance does not always justify deed—there were _choices,_ he picked his.’

For a while, Harry stayed silent. He casted his eyes downwards and took a deep breath. A few moments passed before he finally whispered, ‘Were there, really?’

‘You are projecting,’ the man told him flatly. 

Harry stood up from his seat.

He walked out of the room and told the receptionist that he would not be coming back.

* * *

Harry had found the place under the Potters’ book of properties when he was scouring for whatever was left in his family place. He did not think too much about it then, whatever was left on his brain busy trying to hold him from crying.

 _Friendly Muggle neighbourhood_ was written under its name, along with _in the know_ and _last known occupant: Linfred Potter II._

They took the train there, knowing full well that neither Apparating nor Portkey would be safe for Tom, who was silent during the trip. The first thing he did once they arrived was putting Tom in the room he had prepared before fetching the boy. Harry only had to sing him a few lullabies before Tom started to blink owlishly. 

He was sipping on his tea when he heard the knock on the door.

‘Hello!’ the man on his porch greeted him. ‘I’m Robert, your neighbour—see the house there? That’s where I live,’ he said, pointing at a building Harry honestly couldn’t make out, and showing his hand for a shake. ‘We have not seen anyone here in a while, so I just have to check—you’re a Potter alright. Welcome to Stinchcombe!’

* * *

Harry stopped visiting the unassuming clearing in The Forbidden Forest for a while after the incident. He did not try to find a new shrink. He locked his fireplace. He also stopped going to the weekly dinner at the Burrow.

Andy barged into his house after a month of his self-imposed exile.

‘Teddy missed you,’ she said, after getting rid of all the liquor bottles surrounding him and forcing him to take a bath.

Not long after that, she left, but not without hugging him for a good five minutes.

Harry opened his fireplace and called Hermione, begging her to book him a therapy session.

* * *

Dumbledore’s memory of Wool’s Orphanage might have clued him in as to how rundown the place was, but even that could not have prepared him for the real view. It felt strangely nostalgic—the place reminded him of his cupboard under the stairs, of his 3 year old self’s imagination of how his future house would be like, thanks to uncle Vernon’s daily preachings: A cramped building with nearly-crumbling walls; all dark and dreary, even with the occupants’ obvious efforts in maintaining it.

Mrs Cole, the matron who greeted him in front of the building, was just stationed in the place last year. She had been very kind and accommodating despite her angular face—that was, until he expressed his wish to adopt a baby boy; specifically, one that was named Tom Riddle.

‘Did you know Merope, mister..?’ she quirked an eyebrow.

‘Evans, Harry Evans. I should have introduced myself earlier, sorry, that was a bit rude of me,’ Harry replied. ‘I’m a relative of his father, a distant cousin of some sort.’

Mrs Cole stayed silent, waiting for him to give more details on the matter, but when he said nothing, she stared at him in suspicion. ‘Okay,’ she finally said, ‘I’ll take you to the head matron’s office—the final decision is in her hand.’

(The head matron, thankfully, had asked nothing. She seemed all too happy to get rid of the babe, even offered to change Tom’s legal name to Harry’s. ‘He was always the most handful anyway,’ Harry heard her mutter.)

* * *

Andy and Teddy started to become regulars in his house.

He only needed 20 sessions of therapy and one bookshelf worth of Hermione-approved parenting books before asking them to live with him.

They said yes. For the first time in the decade he had spent living in 12 Grimmauld Place, the place started to feel like home. He could feel tears brimming in his eyes.

Later, Teddy would tease him endlessly about it (‘ _No need to hold your tears, papa,’ he interjected the speech Harry gave at his wedding, ‘I might be the Hufflepuff, but we all know you’re the sap in this family.’_ ), but he never regretted it.

* * *

‘Can I bring anything with me?’

‘We do not meddle with mortal belongings, especially their riches,’ Death replied, ‘but for you, perhaps we can arrange some exceptions.’

* * *

Death first visited him in his dining room. 

Harry was reading Teddy’s letter to her when they nodded slightly at him and disappeared into the hallway to Andy’s room.

‘Cat got your tongue, Harry?’

Harry jerked his head. ‘Sorry, Andy,’ he said, then promptly tried to continue reading. By the end of the letter, it finally dawned on him that the wet patches blooming on the parchment were his tears.

‘He grew so quickly, didn’t he?’ Andy sighed, staring at the ceiling. ‘It feels like he changed his hair colour for the first time just yesterday—you blink, and suddenly he’s a married man with two spawns with ever-changing skin colours.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry laughed, tears still flowing from his eyes. Through the blur, he could see Andy standing up from her seat across him. 

‘Well, I think I’m going to bed now. Teddy was right—my old joints can’t stand being too far from my blankets, apparently,’ she joked. ‘Good night, Harry.’

‘Good night, mum.’

Andy waved at him as she retreated to her room.

As he lay in his bed, he realised that Andy did not say a ‘see you tomorrow’ tonight.

* * *

Harry’s plan was simple. There were only three steps in it.

Step one, take Tom Riddle from the godforsaken orphanage. Step two, give Tom Riddle the childhood every child on earth deserves. Step three, world peace.

Plain and simple.

(In the years to come, he’d come to realise that nothing is ever plain and simple—but that would be a story for another time.)

* * *

He was nursing his morning Earl Grey when Death paid him another visit. No one but him was in the house.

Harry snorted into his cup. 'Glad to know that I can die still.’

'Whoever said anything about dying?' 

* * *

‘Have you chosen?’

‘January 9th, 1927.’

‘Interesting choice of date, I must say,’

‘Did you know that a babe’s first five years are vital to their growth? The period is called the golden age, for they—’

‘Even the bushy-haired lady was not this talkative.’

‘She wasn’t? Well that’s rather out of character for her. But anyway, the gol—’

‘Straight to the point, please.’

‘I’d rather not let anyone drop him on his head and make him undergo exorcism at such an early age because his magic acts on its impulse to save him.’

‘You forgive way too easily.’

‘I can’t exactly condemn anyone for anything they’ve yet to do, can I?’

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't get the pacing, here's a clue: memento but messy. to be completely honest, i'm basically using the prompt as an excuse to put all my favourite tropes and headcanons. there's a huge chance of me coming back to this and add stuffs here and there later--so um, maybe follow my [tumblr](http://hypnagogue.tumblr.com) if you want to get a shout when i do? ehe.  
> title is taken from alt-j's hunger of the pine, a perpetual worm in my ears. as per usual, please do point out any mistake i made on the comments down below. thank you!


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